


Little Bird

by shippingsailor



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25581370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shippingsailor/pseuds/shippingsailor
Summary: Sandor doesn't leave King's Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater. Instead, he sticks around and protects Sansa until Joffrey's death, when he spirits her away without much of a plan. They travel the wilds of Westeros looking for a surviving member of her family, and while they do, feelings develop which Sandor fights hard against but Sansa yields to. Meanwhile, she learns necessary lessons about surviving in the Game of Thrones. Thrown together from some preliminary writings, so very *in media res* and incomplete. Credit to George R.R. Martin for all characters.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

She stood swaying on her feet, fighting the exhaustion.

“I’ve never been so tired,” she confessed, looking sheepish.

He stared at her for a moment, then over her shoulder at the road.

“There’s an inn down the way. You could sleep in a proper bed tonight.” He looked thoughtful. She hoped it was thoughtful versus angry. He always looked angry.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” she ventured, when he said nothing.

His eyes cut back down to her. “Yes. Anywhere I go I could be recognized. And you,” he inclined his head slightly, reaching out and pulling one fine, long lock of red hair out of her hood.

“We shouldn’t then.” Her voice was thin from fatigue, and she tried to keep the disappointment out of it. The Hound sighed. They were further away from King’s Landing now. Maybe the news hadn’t traveled here yet. Then his hands were around her waist and he was lifting her up onto Stranger.

“Your horse is worse off than you. We’ll ride together to the inn.”

Sansa heard that word and felt awash with relief. The Hound pulled himself up behind her, but she noticed he sat stiffly, as if trying to keep their bodies from touching. The minute Stranger leapt forward – gods, the strength of this horse! even after a day of riding he surged at the lightest touch of the reins – she bounced back and struck the hard armor on his chest.

“Wait!” she cried out, and he did, surprised.

“What is it, girl?”

“Your armor. Shouldn’t you take it off? It seems… threatening. Shouldn’t we try to look like peasants?”

“No hiding my armor. What would they think if some peasants came riding in on a warhorse? That’s what Stranger is, make no mistake. Better to look the part. Besides, girl. There might be a fight waiting for us the minute anyone sees my face. No hiding that, either.”

Cowed, Sansa nodded, but she leaned back against the cold steel of his breastplate. She felt so naïve, so unprepared for the world outside of Winterfell and King’s Landing. In that moment she was overwhelmed with gratitude to be resting against the enormous body of a man who could kill just about anyone as easily as swatting a fly.

Luckily they got a room without event. Just one room, however – that’d been all that was left. He’d told the innkeep she was his daughter. When they pushed open the door and saw only one large bed, The Hound had gruffly told her he’d sleep on the floor. Then he’d retreated out of the room, muttering that he’d send up some hot water for a bath, and after she was clean she could join him for dinner downstairs. He had to tend to Stranger in the stables himself, since the beast would let no one else touch it.

A bath. It was the most luxurious bath she’d ever taken, though it was confined to a small wooden tub only half-full with lukewarm water. She sat in the middle of it and sloughed off all of the evidence of the road. She washed her hair and brushed out all the brambles and leaves that had accumulated from nights spent sleeping on the ground. Then she carefully braided it into a long plait down her back; no more fancy hairstyles decorated with pearls, twisted atop her head by Shae’s deft fingers. She felt a stab of pain at the thought, missing Shae. Her friend had been the only good thing about King’s Landing. Luckily Sansa remembered how to braid.

The Hound grunted when she sat down beside him at a worn table in the crowded common room. He held a hunk of bread in one hand and a spoon in the other, and seemed to be alternating using both to shovel stew from an enormous bowl into his mouth. It smelled divine, and when the barmaid came to ask her what she wanted she said, “The same as … my father.” The Hound looked up at her once then, an unreadable expression on his face, before returning his attention to his food.

He’d tried not to notice how sweet-smelling she was, like summer incarnate sitting beside him, rosy-cheeked and exuding happiness for the simple comforts of a roof and a bath. Fortunately it was dark and hard to see the ruby glints in her simply plaited hair, still wet from its scrubbing. It had been odd to hear her call him her father; she’d nearly choked on the word, so clearly it didn’t sit well with her, either. He wondered briefly if she’d spoken it since she’d seen Ned Stark’s head on a pike.

The barmaid brought a steaming bowl – a more manageable size than The Hound’s – and set it before her with an equally large tankard of ale. The Hound raised his brows at that, and Sansa, though surprised that the barmaid had taken her order so literally, shrugged and took a long pull. The Hound watched her over the rim of his soup bowl; then his lips curled into a smile and he let out a barking laugh.

“Drinking like a sailor now, are we?” he chided.

Sansa smiled back sweetly and nodded. “I think I deserve to celebrate a little.”

The Hound laughed again, though less mirthfully. “You do indeed.” He held out his own tankard and she clicked hers against it once before taking another drink. She’d only ever had wine at King’s Landing, so after she swallowed hard she coughed delicately, hoping The Hound hadn’t noticed. If he had, he gave no indication, and soon she was tucking into her own stew just as greedily as he had. The ale went down smoothly after a few sips, and by the time her bowl was empty, her head was spinning. The Hound tossed a few coins on the table and stood. It was signal enough for her, and Sansa got to her feet beside him. Except her feet weren’t quite where she supposed them to be, and she tipped sideways, crashing into the edge of the table next to them. Its equally drunken occupant shouted and surged up covered in the beer she’d spilled, ready for a fight. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a winsome, wide-eyed girl.

“Hello, pretty,” he purred, switching gears immediately. He reached out and took hold of her arms right above the elbows, pulling her hard against him. Sansa gasped and tried to twist away. A heavy hand clapped down on the stranger’s shoulder, and he looked behind him blearily. Sansa saw The Hound’s face fully – soaring above that of the man who was himself a head taller than her – a mask of fury. It didn’t take much more than that expression and the sheer size of the man to get her assailant to let go.

“Hands off,” The Hound growled, and the man did as he was told, backing away and taking a seat again at his table. Sansa slipped past him and almost ran face-first into Clegane’s heavy breastplate. His hand closed around her upper arm to steady her and pulled her away from the tables, tossing the man a coin for his spilled beer and his cooperation. The last thing they needed was a fight.

The Hound scowled. _Dammit, the girl was drunk._ One tankard of ale on an empty stomach and she could barely walk. He hauled her in front of him and marched her back up the narrow stairs to their door, pushing it open and nearly dragging her inside.

“Sleep it off, little bird,” he rasped dismissively, and Sansa dutifully lay down on the bed, hiccupping. It disgusted Sandor how much he liked the sweet, innocent sound. But she was asleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes, her breathing soft and regular. Sandor looked down at her in the candlelight. She was still so young, but her face had some edges to it now, maybe brought about by the hardships of the road. She’d lost a bit of weight after leaving behind the lemoncakes of the Red Keep, and she didn’t have much to spare. His eyes drifted down her body, a body he had felt beneath his hands as he caught her in a swoon or helped her from her horse but which now seemed mysterious. He looked away hurriedly as his manhood hardened, focusing on his armor. It was hard to remove without a squire, and louder than he’d like. Still, it appeared that Sansa slept on undisturbed. When he was down to his thin shirt and breeches, he stuck his head out of the door and called for a small tub of water.

His bathing water came, steaming hot in a small basin, and Sandor stripped down to his breeches. He balled up his shirt and scrubbed it against itself submerged in the basin; there was a small bar of soap at the bottom and he swirled it around in the water, which had instantly clouded with dirt. He squeezed out his shirt and used it to wipe down his upper body then cast a quick glance over to Sansa, who was sleeping on the edge of the bed, curled on her side, facing him. He stood and watched her for a moment, checking for any sign of wakefulness, before he unlaced his breeches and slid them off, too.

She’d woken when the clang of armor hitting the floor jarred her out of a dream, but she didn’t dare move. Sandor was walking around the small room in a loose linen shirt and brown breeches, and Sansa was mesmerized by the fluid grace of his body. She’d never really had an opportunity to watch him without armor. She had thought he would seem smaller, but he was still a massive man. Yet, not without grace. Sansa assumed it was the surety of a man who had trained his body to react without thinking; he moved smoothly, surely, the way Lady had done. Sandor stuck his head out the door and in a few minutes a soft knock came. He opened the door and walked back into the center of the room carrying a small basin full of something that steamed. He turned toward her – she assumed to ensure she was sleeping – so she slitted her eyes and regulated her breathing. Satisfied, he pulled his shirt off and washed it in the tub, and Sansa’s face grew hot. _He was bathing!_ She was watching him bathe. It was improper, she thought, and then almost laughed. Most of what had passed between them was improper, she corrected, and felt a flush of sensation between her legs. Sansa watched the scarred skin of his chest, back, and arms grow shiny with heat and moisture, and she began to breathe harder, though she pushed away all thoughts explaining why. She’d felt those powerful arms around her, supporting her. Her mind played over the size of his hands, and her body thrummed when she remembered the strength of them – encircling her waist, pushing her behind him protectively. It was thrilling somehow to watch him. She watched as he slid his wet shirt over the hair on his broad chest – not so thick that she couldn’t see the skin underneath. She pictured him with a woman, and somehow that woman became herself. Sansa was quite caught up in the vision of his blunt-fingered hands fumbling with the laces of her gown when she noticed him look long and hard at her for a moment, and she almost hid her face in her hands, sure she’d been caught. But then his hands moved down to his own laces, and he was sliding his breeches over his hips and stepping out of them. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. He stood in the candlelight entirely naked, cleaning the dust of the road off of his body, and she could take him in without averting her eyes as she’d done so often when they’d been in Joffrey’s presence. His body had terrified her then, a huge, thickly muscled threat. Now, in the soft, waning candlelight, he looked crafted by some terrible god. The shadows gathered in hollows where muscles joined, where skin puckered over old wounds, and he glistened with moisture from the heat of the bath. He was every bit man, and that made Sansa’s heart beat wildly in her chest. She was filled with a strange longing to press herself against that chest, run her hands over the peaks and valleys of his skin. She fought to stay still and maintain her pretense of sleeping. He didn’t linger over his bath, and too soon he was pulling his breeches back on. They rested mostly unlaced just below two defined muscles above his hip bones that seemed to plunge in a v shape toward his groin, drawing her eye back to the bulge there. She sighed, too loudly, and Sandor’s battle-wary ears perked; his head whipped toward her and he stood frozen in a tense position of readiness, watching her.

Ready for what exactly he didn’t know. Was the little bird awake? Had she been watching him? Her face was serene, and her chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm. She must just have been dreaming. He stepped closer to her and studied her with narrowed eyes. Sleeping still, by all accounts. She’d been fairly drunk; she was probably sleeping the ale stupor he knew all too well. He turned back to the basin, scrubbed his shirt one last time, then wrung it out and hung it over the back of the only chair in the room. He’d sleep in his breeches to give it a chance to air dry. Sandor balled up the padded vest he wore under his armor and sat on the floor beside the bed. It was warm in the room and he had no need of blankets, so he lay down and tucked the fabric under his head as a pillow. He’d just closed his eyes when he heard her hesitant voice.

“Ser?”

“Not a ser,” he reminded her for what felt like the hundredth time, his eyes still closed.

“I call you that when I don’t know what else to call you,” she said, exasperated. Then, more measured, and softly, “You should have a chance to sleep in a bed, too.”

“One bed in this room, girl.” As if she hadn’t noticed.

She swallowed hard. “I know. I can’t sleep knowing you’re on the hard floor.”

He kept his eyes closed but his jaw bunched in frustration. “Bed or floor, little bird, it’s all the same to me.”

“I’d feel better if you would share the bed with me.”

His eyes opened then and looked at her. She was watching him, her cheeks flushed. He wondered if it was the ale that gave her boldness, and if she knew how suggestive her innocent statement sounded to a man’s ears. He knew she meant only sleep, and for some reason that made him angry. Still, he knew she wouldn’t let it rest if he rebuffed her. She didn’t flinch away, just looked at him steadily. “There’s no one here to see.”

“I will if you’ll stop your twittering and let me sleep,” he growled. She smiled hesitantly, and immediately shuffled over to the far side of the bed. Sandor stood, and realized he was still shirtless. He cast about briefly; he had only the one shirt, and it was wet. Sleeping in it didn’t appeal to him, but he doubted Sansa would feel comfortable next to him if he was half-naked. He took two strides over to the chair where his shirt hung and reached for it.

“You can’t sleep in that!” She was sitting up on one elbow with a grimace on her face. “It’s wet. It’ll get the sheets all wet, too.”

He turned toward her, annoyed despite himself. “You’d rather me like this?” he gestured to his broad, bare-skinned chest.

Her eyes were wide and she unabashedly looked him up and down, then cut her gaze shyly away. “We are past the point of propriety, you and I.”

Sandor couldn’t argue with that, so he walked back over to the bed sat down on the edge. Suddenly it occurred to him to wonder how she’d known his shirt was wet. _Past the point of propriety, indeed._ She _had_ been watching him.

“Go back to sleep, girl,” he ordered gruffly, stretching out on his back on his side of the mattress that suddenly seemed very small. As his weight pulled the ropes taut, Sansa found herself rolling toward him, and before she could stop herself she had crashed into his side, her body covering his arm. They lay momentarily in stunned silence in the sagging middle of the bed. Maybe it was the ale or the giddy embarrassment of spying on him, but the situation suddenly struck Sansa as hilariously funny, and she burst out laughing, turning her face into the solid slab of muscle beside his shoulder. To her infinite relief, he joined in, his laugh a deep, rumbling quake beneath her right cheek. They rocked together in mirth for a few wordless moments, until Sansa took a deep breath and wiped at her eyes with her left hand, the one that wasn’t crushed between them. When she put her hand down on his chest beside her face, he grew suddenly still.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh,” she said into the silence that hung around them almost palpably.

“Not many things to laugh about,” he replied after a slight hesitation. She made no move to sit up and extricate herself from him, though she could tell he was waiting for her to do just that.

“I used to laugh with my brothers all the time. Less so with Arya. She always used to make me furious.”

The Hound grunted under her, amused. “I think she wants to kill me.”

“She would, too,” Sansa laughed, but then sobered up a bit too quickly when she remembered why. “Do you think she’s still alive?”

He could think of nothing comforting to say, so he lifted his head and put his lips against the soft hair at the crown of hers. That could be brotherly, he thought. He felt a pang in his chest, remembering his sister. Sansa was definitely not his sister. He regretted the kiss instantly, but Sansa turned her face up to him and whispered, “Do it again.”

He did, aiming for her forehead, but she inclined her chin slightly at the last minute, and his lips landed half on her lips. He was a creature of contrasts – surprisingly soft lips on the undamaged side giving way to leathery scars. The brush of rough stubble. He pulled back, hastily pushing her away, clearly feeling he’d overstepped. But it couldn’t have escaped his attention that she’d been the one to turn into his lips.

“Little bird,” he began, when she clung to him, warning in his voice.

She set her jaw and looked at him steadily.

“I’m not afraid,” she told him.

“It’s not right,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.

“Why are you the only one who gets to decide what’s right?” she retorted.

He ground his teeth. “You had a whole tankard of ale. You’re a slip of a thing. You’re in no state to be making decisions you’ll regret tomorrow.”

She couldn’t decide if he was protecting her or insulting her, so she simply said, “I won’t regret this.”

“Yes, little bird. I assure you – you will.” He turned his back on her. “Now go to sleep.”

She huffed once, then did as she was bid.

Sandor waited until her breathing was soft and regular again, then crept out of the bed. He had a raging erection and there was no way sleep would come any time soon without relief. He slipped out of the room, down the stairs, and into the nearby woods. He wasn’t about to risk her watching him do _that._ When he’d stroked his cock back to softness, cursing himself all the while, he returned to the room he was sharing with Sansa Stark and tried not to look too closely at the moon-white skin of her serene face as he settled himself carefully beside her and tried to sleep.

Later... on the road again.

_Let’s let the stars watch; let them stare_

_Let the wind eavesdrop; I don’t care_

_For all that we’ve got don’t let go_

_Just hold me._

_\- The Civil Wars, Eavesdrop_

He was just dozing off when he felt the soft flutter of butterfly wings on his lips. One massive hand swung up and blindly tried to smack the insect away but instead landed on a silky head. Sansa gasped and Sandor sat up suddenly, sputtering.

"What in seven hells?!!" He roared, hand reaching for his sword belt. He blinked a few times at the silhouette of a shuddering form beside him. "Sansa?"

"I'm sorry," she squeaked. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Sandor scowled at her and narrowed his eyes.

"And just what in the hell were you doing, girl?"

Silence. She chewed momentarily on her lip, then whispered, "Kissing you."

He felt suddenly like he had been doused with a bucket of boiling water.

"What?" he bellowed, then looked around warily and took a deep breath. "Why in the name of every fucking God there is would you do that?" He was incredulous but found himself running a fingertip over his lips to reawaken the feeling.

Sansa scooted closer so he could see her face clearly in the dying embers of the fire.

"I wanted to," she replied simply. Then her liquid eyes met his unflinchingly. "Don't you want to kiss me?" Fear lurked behind her lashes and Sandor almost laughed, before the awareness of his own arousal crept into his mind and the shame killed everything else.

"Sansa, ugly brutes like me don't kiss pretty maidens."

She pouted, and it was delicious and infuriating at the same time. It wasn't the rejection she feared he'd give her, however, so she grew bolder.

"I don't think you're ugly." Her eyes fell to the ground and her cheeks pinkened. Anger was growing in the pit of Sandor's stomach - _stupid bird, doesn't she know anything?_ \- then she utterly disarmed him. Glancing up through her thick lashes and placing a small white hand on his chest, she said, "Will you kiss me, Sandor? Please?"

 _ **B** loody fucking hells._ What was he supposed to say to that? His mind raced as she leaned toward him, putting her soft cheek against the exposed skin at the top of his tunic. She had no idea what she was doing, and that knowledge was the only thing that stopped him from pulling her tight against him and covering her mouth with his. He grabbed her hand off of his tunic and pushed her away, not ungently.

"This isn't one of your songs, little bird," he growled.

The hurt and confusion on her face was plain. Tears welled in her eyes and she turned away from him. They sat in uncomfortable silence for several long minutes while Sandor fumed and Sansa cried silently, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

Just being around her constantly was torment enough. He wasn't sure he could control himself if she started sliding into his lap and kissing him. _Fucking girl_ , he raged, but his chest felt strangely tight. He couldn't see Sansa's face, but suddenly she hitched a sob and the silence was broken by loud crying.

"For fuck's sake," he muttered, and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, awkwardly, as it turned out, because he had no clue how to comfort crying maidens. She shook him off and cried louder.

Sandor sighed heavily and stood, regarding her for a moment, then gathered the girl up in his arms and carried her over to the fire, where he sat on a felled tree and held her. She felt so tiny and fragile in his arms, and she simply melted against him, so grateful for the solace of another body in the midst of her profound loneliness. Her face rested on his chest and her knees were tucked up on his thighs, his embrace engulfing her in what felt like perfect safety. His sheer size used to terrify her, she mused, trying to wrap her arms around his chest. Gradually her crying ceased. Sandor brushed a calloused, heavy hand down her silken hair.

"Hush, little bird," he said gruffly. It was as close to an apology as she was likely to get. Still, her pride was smarting from his rejection. Why didn't he want her? Was she too young? Did he see her as only a child? After all I've been through, I am far from childhood, she told herself, resolve steely. She tilted her face up to the stubbled underside of his chin and pressed her lips against it.

Sandor froze. She was kissing him again. Seven hells. He didn't want to set off the crying once more, but if she kept up her soft caressing of his neck while she was still on his lap, soft and sweet-smelling as summer, she would rapidly discover exactly how he felt about her. He tried to pull her away gently and meet her eyes.

"Sansa. You shouldn't do that."

She pouted again, and he had to repress the sudden desire to duck his head and bite her lip.

"Why?" she whispered, tears welling again. She was searching his slate-grey eyes for an answer that wouldn't seem like distaste. "Am I ..." She searched. "Not pretty?"

Sandor threw back his head and laughed, an ugly laugh full of bitterness, but stifled the sound when she jumped in his arms, startled. "Stupid bird." Sansa flinched and looked crushed, so he answered in complete honesty. "You're beautiful. Far too beautiful and innocent to waste your kisses on the likes of me. Enough with this."

He stood hastily and put her on her feet, turning away before she could see how much difficulty he was having mastering himself. Sansa was temporarily elated, and breezed through the rest of the evening with a smile on her face. Sandor was still in agony, more so because the warm glow of contentment the girl wore like a crown only made her more beautiful in the firelight. Her auburn hair glinted with streaks of gold and her perfect skin looked honeyed. She moved with lithe grace, watching her hulking companion out of the corner of her eyes. He looked so different out of the shadow of the Red Keep - his size, gruffness, and fierceness still objectively terrifying but somehow comforting when she knew he would use them only to protect her. She watched the fluid confidence of his movements, the surety of a man who used his body like a weapon. And such a man. Sandor Clegane was all man - impossibly broad shoulders, heavy muscle clenching visibly even in subtle movements, long, powerful legs that carried his massive weight effortlessly and -- gracefully, she noted with surprise. He was taller than any man she had ever been this close to, though she knew his brother was taller still. The Mountain, they called him. She had difficulty imagining a bigger man as she watched the Hound lay out their bedding. She felt so tiny in his presence, and somehow that thrilled her.

"To sleep now, little bird," he instructed in a tone that would brook no refusal, his voice vibrating through her. She did as she was bid, bedding down on the cold ground and grateful for the warm blankets while noticing that his were meager. She recalled resting against him and how his skin had felt like a furnace. The night would be cold, she could tell.

"And what about you, ser?" She asked tentatively. Sandor didn't turn as he replied.

"I'm no ser." His usual, angry reply. Then he softened a little, realizing she had asked expecting an answer. "Later. Rest easy, I'll keep watch a while yet." She heard the sloshing of a wineskin and hoped for the briefest moment that he didn't intend to get drunk before sleep overtook her.

* * *

Sandor cursed the fact that he only had one full wineskin, because getting as drunk as fucking possible was the only way he could figure to get rid of the massive erection that had been haunting him ever since he felt her soft breath on his neck. He drained it too quickly, but on an empty stomach it did well enough. The fire had died down sufficiently to quiet his fears about the smoke being sighted by pursuers, but the cold air was creeping ever closer to the warm ring of their campsite. He lay down behind Sansa, hoping her blankets would be sufficient to keep her warm without him having to touch her.

* * *

He drifted in delicious warmth and felt a soft body in his arms. Hell of a dream, he grinned, and pulled the faceless woman hard against him, burying his face in her fragrant hair. Her lips roamed over his face - burnt and unburnt sides alike - and her fingers were featherlight on his arms and chest. Sandor ran a hand up her thigh and over her slender waist, coming to rest on a small but supple breast still clad in a gown. The whore he dreamt of squeaked when he squeezed hard, and Sandor began to suspect he wasn't dreaming. His eyes flew open and struggled to focus through a wine haze just as her lips found his. The kiss was so sweet and hesitant he knew before he made out the glint of auburn tresses that it was Sansa in his bed, curled against him for warmth.

"Fucking hells!" He barked, struggling up on one arm as she cried out and shrunk from him.

"I was cold!" She squeaked again in explanation.

"You don't have to fucking kiss me to warm up, little bird!" His swearing scared her, but she found her Stark backbone.

"Why won't you kiss me?" She demanded. "You said I'm beautiful."

Sandor groaned, his head swimming with wine and desire. She slid over close to him again.

"You said you would serve me however you were able. I want you to kiss me."

Anger was boiling in Sandor's gut alongside a dangerous lust that threatened to overwhelm him. He regretted his words the minute she threw them back in his face.

"You want me to kiss you, little bird?" He sneered. "If that's what you demand I will comply, but be careful what you wish for. I am not one of your pretty knights, and if I kiss you I'll kiss you as a man kisses a woman."

Something about the tone of his voice sent her heart beating into a mad rhythm that was partly born of fear, but she held her head high and repeated, "I want you to kiss me."

He regarded her in silence for the duration of a long breath, in both incredulity and rage, before he roughly grabbed her and rolled her onto her back, pressing his lips hard against hers. The hand that wasn't supporting his weight to prevent him from crushing her twisted into her hair at the nape of her neck. His lips opened against hers and his tongue darted past as he deepened the kiss. The feeling was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling; trapped and utterly in his control, she felt somehow free. But the feeling was fleeting as he pulled back once to let her catch her breath and then kissed her hard again, his strength and size and the heady, musky scent of him - heat and blood and leather and steel - intimidating. She had never kissed a man like this, and she had never kissed a man like him. The need was burning in his eyes and his arms were steel around her. When he finally broke the kiss she felt like she was drowning and struggled feebly against him. He released her and pushed away, fighting to regain control. Almost as soon as he was gone she felt his lack.

Sandor punched the ground hard and gritted his teeth. _Fuck, that almost killed him._ His guts were a maelstrom of guilt, anger, and powerful arousal. _Damn that girl!_

He looked up and saw her staring at him with wide eyes, one arm wrapped protectively around her waist and the other brushing her lips, which were starkly red against her pale skin.

They both sat and regarded one another, panting. He thought for sure she was terrified and would leave him alone. He hated the idea that she might.

"Had enough?" he demanded haughtily. She sidestepped.

"Thank you for the kiss. It was - - not what I expected." True, she decided, still sorting though her tumbled feelings.

Sandor snorted.

"Now back to sleep little bird and let's have no more talk of kissing." All he wanted was for her to fall instantly asleep so he could stomp into the woods and stroke away the raging hardness of his cock.

"Why not?" She asked innocently, and Sandor's rage peaked.

"Because kissing leads to other things in my world, little bird, and you don't want those things with me!" he roared.

Sansa was momentarily struck silent, cheeks scarlet at the implication. Then, without fully knowing why, she shot back, "What if I do?"

It was Sandor's turn to be struck dumb, but when he recovered he felt only anger - with what was surely her innocent, fairytale notions of what that might mean and how completely different those would be from what he would actually do to her if she invited him into her bed. He would shatter that fantasy with his towering lust for her as easily as he did her maidenhead, and he doubted he could be gentle about it. Why did she bring out some fucking nobility he didn't even know he had and which his cock currently resented tremendously? Any other woman would be on her back already.

"You don't know what the fuck you're saying, little bird, but I warn you - don't say those things to grown men, least of all me. I have fucking limits."

 _What did that mean?_ She wondered. She looked at him as if for the first time -- the Hound. One of the most fearsome warriors in Westeros, his scarred face still fierce but somehow less terrible. He had defended her when no one else would, even at great risk to himself. He'd even defied Joffrey for her sake. Though he was crude and hard and blunt, he was probably the closest thing to a true knight she had seen. A smile stole onto her face.

 _What in the seven hells?_ She was grinning, this seductive, gentle curve of lip. _Fucking girl, she is playing with fire._ _Just coming into her womanhood and the dawning realization of the power that gives her over men. She thinks she is in control, but she'll get herself fucking killed trying to play her hand without knowing a stitch about anyone else's._ His fists clenched at his sides as his mind clicked through all of the leering faces of men he'd seen watch her in court.

She walked slowly up to him and put one cool white hand on his burned cheek.

"I liked when you kissed me, Sandor," she sighed. Her other palm was flat on his chest, feeling his racing heart. "I wouldn't mind if you did it again."

He almost exploded with fury and the effort of stopping himself from doing just what she said and more.

"Don't push me," he said through clenched teeth, and in answer she stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips into his neck at the highest point she could reach.

Sandor groaned audibly and slammed into her, sweeping her into his arms as he carried her to the ground and kissed her on every inch of exposed skin.

Again he was both terrifying and mesmerizing, and her hands roamed freely over him, marveling at the raw masculinity of him. He kissed her breathless and ground his hips against hers, pushing her into the dirt. She was struck by the reality that he could easily overpower her. If he wanted something from her that she didn't want to give, he could take it easily. Her heart fluttered and then started to bang as if in protest against her ribs. He was murmuring into her hair, his rough stubble grating over her skin.

"Is this what you want, little bird?" He was rough with her, mostly because he couldn't help it but also to scare her, shake some sense into her so she could stop him before it was too late. Give her a taste of what bedding The Hound might really be like before she gilded the idea with too much pretty fantasy. Tremulously, she smiled at him, and he closed his eyes. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He had to stop this. She had to learn. He was still too drunk to think clearly, and he was angry enough to provoke her.

"How about this?" he asked, ripping her gown a bit down her shoulders as he nuzzled her chest. He moved his rough, battle-calloused hand down over her clavicle and under the neckline of her gown, roughly squeezing her breast.

Sansa gasped, her romantic notions of propriety warring with the thrill his fingers on her bare skin quickened. She flushed at the intimacy and the promise of what might follow.

 _Seven hells!_ Sandor cursed inwardly as Sansa gasped out both surprise and excitement. The asking in her bright eyes made him hate himself for the arousal it awakened. Unthinkingly, he kissed her again as his hand trailed down the bodice of her gown and started to pull her skirts up and away.

Sansa felt Sandor's hand on her bare thigh and panicked a little. Things were moving too quickly. She wasn't sure she didn't want what he was seemingly intending, but not this fast. She pushed against his shoulders, trying to gain some leverage, but he was a solid wall of muscle.

"Is this what you want?" Sandor growled at her ear, his hot breath smelling of wine, as his fingers pulled aside her small clothes and slid against her most secret place. His mouth closed over her gasp.

She had hardly ever touched herself there, and it was a shock to suddenly realize that Sandor Clegane, Joffrey's Hound, could feel her slick readiness. Her body might be willing, but her mind wasn't. _This wasn't how the stories go._ She started to squirm, taking short, fast breaths through her nose as she struggled beneath him. His lips were still on hers; she couldn't cry out for him to stop, so before she could protest he slipped a long, thick finger inside her. He scraped his unshaven cheek hard against her soft one as he broke the kiss and whispered gruffly in her ear,

"You like this, little bird?" He pushed as deep into her as he dared, then abruptly pulled out, dragged her to a sitting position by both wrists, and pressed her palms hard against the bulge between his legs. "Much bigger than a finger," he warned, eyes flashing. Then he tossed her hands away and staggered up, leaving her sitting on the ground stunned.

She took a long, shuddering breath and curled up in a ball, hugging her knees to her chest, and sobbed. She could still feel the rough thickness of his finger inside her and the marks of his hands seared all over her skin. Why did he have to take something lovely and make it so ugly?

Sandor passed a shaking hand over his face and tried to regain composure. He knew instantly he'd gone too far. Glancing down, he forced himself to study his hand in the dim light. No blood; so her maidenhead was still intact. He wanted to strike the offending hand from his arm, but instead turned away from the fire and retched, emptying the dregs of wine from his stomach. He stood panting with his hands on his bent knees for a few minutes before the sound of Sansa's sobs penetrated the haze and he was nearly crushed by the weight of his guilt and self-loathing. He'd sworn never to touch her like that, never to spoil her perfect innocence with his crudeness. He'd hurt the only person he wanted to protect. Filthy dog. And now she shrank from him with no one to comfort her, since the very thought of touching her set off a wildfire explosion of desire and disgust with his own weakness, though all he wanted to do was hold her and make her feel safe again. Like most impossible situations, it made him toweringly angry. He could neither run away to find the nearest tavern nor scoop her into his arms, so he yelled. His voice grating like steel, he clenched his fists and snarled at the trembling little bird like the dog he was.

"Not as pretty as your fucking songs, is it? Best you learn now what most men will want from you, little bird, and how easy it is to take it if you let down your guard for a second. Scared? Good! You should be fucking scared of me - I'm not your bleeding prancing Florian, and don't fucking tempt me with sweet kisses in the middle of the damn night when I've been drinking and mix you up with a dream. I'm no knight, and if you dress up a pile of shit with pretty notions, it doesn't turn to gold! Now fucking sleep!"

He threw himself down onto his blankets and resolved to ignore her sniffling. It didn't work, but he finally drifted to sleep after she wrapped herself in her blankets as far away from him as possible and fell silent


	2. II

The next few days were torment. He let her ride alone on the horse while he stalked beside, not caring about the lost time. They moved in careful, untouching circles around each other, not even daring to risk their gazes meeting. He watched her closely when she wasn't looking. She didn't seem to be in physical pain, though she often had to pull on the shoulders of her gown as he'd shredded a few seams that made it slide off a creamy shoulder from time to time. Whenever it did, he noticed she glanced at him with fear in her eyes, hoping she'd covered up before he saw. He always averted his eyes, focusing intently on a task or the landscape with a grimace on his face. The sight of her pained him, both because his desire for her didn't stop and because he hated himself for it. His mood grew steadily blacker as he scrambled to provide both food and safety for them without going anywhere near her in one of the wildest parts of Westeros. He barked commands at her when he spoke at all. Finally, she could stand it no longer. While he was crouched over a pile of sticks trying to make a fire at the end of a particularly long and frigid day, she broke the silence.

"Please don't be angry with me." Her voice was as tiny as she was, sweet and pleading. "I'm sorry I pushed you."

Sandor was overcome with shame and fury. She had been agonizing over what she thought was his anger toward her - a green girl craving the chaste devotion of her fucking storybook knight! An innocent craving he had so thoroughly corrupted that he could barely tolerate the memory of it. What in the flying fuck was she thinking? And how the hell could she blame herself for his brutish lack of self-restraint, his crude reminder that life isn't a fucking pretty song?? He almost lost it. She made him crazy.

Sandor stood, spun on his heel, and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her bodily off the ground as her hands instinctively pushed against his shoulders, blue eyes impossibly wide staring into his. "Goddamn it, girl!" He shouted, shaking her hard. "You shouldn't be apologizing to me! Don't you dare say you're fucking sorry!"

Sansa gasped loudly once and burst into tears - again. Sandor dropped her back on her feet and sank down to one knee in front of her, hands over his face. "I am the one who should be apologizing, if I thought it would do any fucking good. Little bird - for fuck's sake! Fly as far away from me as you can. I will take you to the nearest village and find a better man to bring you where you need to go. It shouldn't be bloody hard. And I swear, I swear on my sister's grave, I will never touch you again."

She looked down at him and smiled tremulously. He was still her knight, though nothing like the ones in the stories. She put a gentle hand on his bent head like a benediction, careful to make it chaste.

"No, Sandor. I was a foolish girl, caught up in the songs. You were only trying to teach me what I risk. I understand better now. I forgive you. Please stay with me." She paused, trying to justify in a language he'd understand. "You're stronger than everyone else. I know you can protect me. And I know you won't hurt me."

Sandor scoffed even though her words were a balm on his tortured conscience. "Won't hurt you? That's a fucking joke after what I did to you."

She blushed crimson, remembering the feeling of his finger inside her, and the blistering heat and hardness of his huge manhood under his laces. She was shocked to feel something quite apart from fear at the thought of that part of him in place of his finger, and she hurriedly put the image aside.

"I'm still... intact," she asserted, somewhat at a loss for words but determined to see it through. "You could have done far worse, and you didn't. I trust you."

He grunted, still resentful but resolved to be trustworthy. She bent to take hold of one of his hands and pull him into a standing position. She met his eyes unflinchingly. "You don't have to avoid touching me like I'm made of glass. I will tell you if you do anything to make me uncomfortable. And you must tell me if I ... cross any of your lines."

Awkwardly she held out a hand, as if they were making a bargain. He narrowed his eyes at her, but took her proffered peace offer and shook her small hand firmly.

* * *

Their fragile peace held and grew over the next few days into a comfortable companionship. Though he still had to look away from her glaring beauty sometimes or steal into the woods to relieve some of the pressure, it was as if a door between them had materialized and opened. They were like survivors of a common battle, closer somehow to each other's core through shared trauma.

On one wickedly cold night when they were forced to make a camp in the open, Sansa saw him laying out their bedrolls and said simply, "It is too cold to sleep alone, Sandor. I'd like to share your blankets if it's not too much to ask."

He knew it would be agony to hold her as chastely as a brother, but it would also be so sweet. He nodded, and when the time came for bed he lay down and opened his arms and she slipped gratefully into them, resting her head against the place where his arm joined his chest, her shoulder fitting perfectly under his arm. She sighed contentedly, snuggling into his heat as he tucked the blankets around them.

"You don't make a very good pillow, you know," she told him sleepily, her hand on his chest. "You're hard as a rock."

He almost choked, knowing she meant the flat slabs of muscle that no doubt felt unyielding under her head but mentally tripping over the meaning that went over her pretty innocent red one. He just chuckled darkly and squeezed her close. She has already dropped off to sleep.

* * *

Her voice was unmistakable, but he'd never heard the note of panic it carried before. The sound was brief but when it echoed on the wind his head snapped up and immediately he grabbed his sword and followed it. He came upon the scene quickly; he'd stayed close even though he knew she wanted privacy.

Three tattered men encircled her, one holding her arms behind her back with a hand over her mouth, the other keeping watch, and a third. He was the tallest, clearly the leader, and he had ripped her bodice open, revealing her white breasts and their tiny pink nipples erect in the cold. There were livid red marks on her skin, and he had a hand up under her skirts. She was fighting hard, straining against her captor, and before his eyes she bit his fingers and managed to get her mouth free long enough to scream, "Sandor!"

The leader struck her hard across the face and caught her around the waist as the man holding her howled and let go. The third man started glancing around nervously as the leader bore Sansa to the ground and held her wrists on either side of her head.

"Sandor?" The third man was saying, catching the attention of the man examining the bite marks on his fingers. "Clegane?" He wondered into the air as a sword point erupted from his chest. Roaring, Sandor shook the man off his blade and raised his sword over the second man, who watched it in horror as he mouthed, "The Hound!" He was cleaved nearly in half, and then Sandor turned on the leader. He was quick despite his size (which was still a head shorter than his opponent) and had pulled Sansa upright against his chest, holding a knife to her throat as he used her as a shield between himself and Clegane.

Her hands flew up to try to tug her torn dress closed over her breasts. "No harm done, Hound," the man was saying, as Sandor growled deep in his throat. Sansa's cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears and one was rapidly purpling where he'd struck her. Evidence of greedy, filthy hands were all over her exposed skin; Sandor made out a bite mark over her left breast and almost exploded in fury.

"One finger laid on her against her will is a death sentence," he growled, catching Sansa's eye.

 _One finger..._ He cast aside the memory.

"Well, if I'm to die then," the man said, shrugging. The hand that held her waist crept up to her breast underneath her fluttering hands and he kneaded hard, twirling and pinching her nipple between his fingertips. Sansa cried out and hid her face in shame. Sandor was quietly calculating; the blade at Sansa's throat was a threat, but the outlaw probably underestimated The Hound's speed. Most smaller men did. The man's hand slid down Sansa's stomach and under the waistline of her tattered gown. She felt his slender hand descend between her thighs and one finger hook upward, delving into her body. She could feel his hardness digging into her back, somehow less intimidating than Sandor's.

"You're a better man than me, Clegane, for not taking her. I can feel her maidenhead still. Or maybe for all your size and strength you've not much manhood to match," he taunted. Sansa gasped as he tried to force another finger into her.

Sandor roared and took one giant step forward, grabbing the dagger's blade in one hand and raising his sword with the other. The man's hand flew up, quickly sliding out of her body, and she ducked down and rolled away from the two combatants just as Sandor brought his huge sword down on the man's head. She turned away, but the spray of blood splattered them both.

The glade was eerily quiet, then, even though Sandor was behind her, breathing hard. He seized her around the waist, spun her fast, and threw her over his shoulder wordlessly, carrying her back to their meager camp. He put her down gently, though she could feel the unspoken words thrumming through his body. He quaked with anger.

"I know," she said, without looking at him. "I'm a stupid little bird. I was singing, and they must have heard."

His rage would be too much to take right now; she was doing her best to keep it together since she knew he hated it when she cried.

He watched her, blaming herself, trying to still the adrenaline shaking her hands like leaves as she fumbled with the edges of her dress. There was blood spatter all over it and the bodice was hopelessly torn. He'd have to find a way to get her a new dress. He set to work wiping down his blade.

"You saved me again," she said lightly. "Just like after the riot." He said nothing, so she continued. "They were closer this time. He put his fingers... inside me." Her eyes were blank, as if she were staring at the dead man's hand.

"Fuck, little bird, stop your twittering! I saw what he did! I'd kill him again if I could! Cut off his cock and stick it in his mouth!" She shrank from the brutality of his words.

"Is that what you feel when you think of when you did that?" He froze, remembering the tight, velvet wetness of her. He clenched his teeth, getting hard at the thought. Back to his task, singleminded as possible. Ignore her.

"I don't think about that," he growled. _Liar._ He did far too often, and how it aroused him made him no better than the men who lay dead behind them.

"I do." She spoke so softly, thoughtfully, intimately, as if he had somehow snuck inside her head. He gave up his task and just stood still, listening. "It was so different when you did it."

Sandor grunted angrily. "No different. Neither of us are fit to touch you."

"But he would have ... taken me," she decided on the delicate phrasing. "You didn't." She turned her face toward him and her bright blue eyes met his. "Why?"

 _Because I want you, but I want you willing. I want you moaning my name, arching against me, opening for me._ He said none of those things. "I swore to keep you safe," he said instead.

"You don't desire me like they did?"

"They desired their own pleasure. It was just luck that you are pretty, too. They would have savaged you, Sansa. Just like the men at the riot. They were angry; they wanted to defile something beautiful and too good for them."

She nodded, sniffing despite herself. "I understand now what that would mean. Thank you for protecting me." She turned to face him, then, and slowly met his eyes. "Your hand is hurt. Let me dress it for you."

He'd forgotten that he'd grabbed the blade of the knife held to her throat, but he remembered now. He nodded assent, but not before giving her a tunic from his satchel to cover her exposed chest. He allowed her to clean his cuts with boiled water and wrap his hand with strips of fabric torn from the underskirt of her ruined gown. The ones that touched his skin she'd boiled, and she tied a tight bandage of thickly woven fabric from the outer skirts around. "You shouldn't use it for several days," she told him. "It is a good thing it isn't your sword hand, but I will stay close and try not to get into any more ... trouble."

He was surprised by her composure after watching her crumble into tears at the slightest provocation for so long. 


	3. III

She stood before him, resolved. "When I was a girl I wanted a life like the songs, but now I know that that is all they are - songs. What waits for me is far crueler - my maidenhead bartered away for advantageous marriage, or stolen roughly. I have been used as a pawn before, and I have no intention of letting that happen again. No, this time I will choose, and I choose you."

"Foolish bird. You're stuck out in the wilds with me now, but when I return you to Winterfell a pretty knight will turn your head again and you'll regret giving yourself to the likes of me."

"No. I am changed, too. I have seen too much to crave a knight like those in the songs, if one even exists. I need a little darkness now, so my own is not thrown into the light." She smiled sadly, placing a hand on his arm. "Sandor, I know what I am asking you. I know it will hurt, especially with a man of your... size. I know it will diminish my worth in others' eyes and may put you in danger. I am sorry for that. But I am a married woman, and no one need know it was not my husband who took my maiden's gift. If he is alive, Tyrion will keep my secret, and if not - I could use my Lannister name to our mutual advantage."

It was all very well thought out, he mused. That didn't make it any less fucking stupid and dangerous. And part of him ached that she wanted him for strategic reasons. His grey eyes met hers, and she must have seen something in them despite his guardedness. She put a hand on his chest.

"And Sandor, all the knights I've known - the white cloaks, the handsome faces - all they have done is hurt and disillusion me. My dreams have beat me bloody, and through it all you have been at my side. You're crude and angry and sometimes terrifying, but you are loyal and strong and honest and noble."

He snorted derisively.

"I'm not noble, little bird. It is a sad world indeed where you can mistake me for that."

She held firm. "To me you are. In battle maybe not. Under orders, less so. But you do what you have to do to survive, and when you can choose, you do what is right. And that is noble. That is the only nobility that exists in this world."

He turned away from her, but she walked around to meet his eye again.

"I feared you once," she said, thoughtfully. "You were so angry, so terrible on the battlefield. You said such cruel and heartless things to me. I remember watching you in the melee thinking no man in Westeros could stand against you and live. But when you are close to me..." she sighed, but it was not a shuddering sigh of fright, but a deep and longing one. Her fingers brushed his cheek and he fought the urge to turn away. "All of the fearsome things about you somehow become ... different. They are the things that make you Sandor, and no other." Her fingers found the scarred side of his face, and he froze. His name on her lips and her touch on his face somehow undid him, and he closed his eyes and leaned into her palm. His huge hand pressed over hers.

"I don't want to hurt you, little bird. I cannot do what you ask without hurting you." She smiled, so gently. "There are many kinds of pain, Sandor. This will be the healing kind, and I will bear it gladly." He scoffed, but not unkindly.

"Let's see what you say when the time comes." She thrilled inwardly, then. He had agreed.


	4. IV

“You can tell me to stop, up until the time that I’m actually inside you. After that…” She nodded, blushing slightly at his frankness. _Inside you._ Her skin broke out in gooseflesh.

He lowered himself down between her legs. She jumped when his fingers gently spread her.

“Not yet,” he told her, and rubbed some of her moisture along his length. It had been a long time since he’d bedded a virgin, but he remembered. Then he placed his cock against her entrance. Sandor looked down at Sansa, waiting for something like permission. She was biting her lower lip; _gods, she was impossibly beautiful._ He pushed forward slightly and she gasped, clutching his arms.

“Will it hurt?” she asked him, and he sighed deeply.

“Yes, little bird. It will hurt. Even if I am gentle. I am not a small man. Should I stop?” She paused for a moment, really considering, as his mind reeled. What if she said yes? Could he comply?

“No,” she answered, and bit her lip again. “But… go slowly.”

He wasn’t at all sure if that would help, but he nodded assent. He pushed forward again, and the tip of his cock slid into her. She moaned slightly, and her stomach muscles tensed. Sandor took hold of her hips – so narrow compared to his own; she was half the size of him – and pushed deeper. She gasped sharply and her eyes sought his.

“It won’t fit!” she cried. Sandor ground his teeth.

“It will fit, little bird. But not comfortably.” Sansa nodded and set her jaw.

“Keep going.” Sandor obeyed, stretching her still wider. She was arching her back now, and her brow was knit. “You can sit astride me,” he suggested. “And go at your own pace.”

She shook her head vigorously no. “I couldn’t do it. It hurts, Sandor.”

Her sweet voice saying his name was like a slap in the face. _What was he doing?_ She didn’t know what she was asking for. “Sansa, this is wrong. You’re just a girl. It’s not too late. I can stop.”

“I don’t care if it hurts! Please.” Please. He almost laughed. She was pleading with him to fuck her. How the hell he managed to deserve this, he would never know.

“Just keep going, no matter what. Go slowly and don’t stop.” He leaned down and kissed her softly on the cheek. She turned her head and her lips sought his, and she kissed him back with a kind of hunger he had never seen in her. Things were rapidly reaching the point of no return, so Sandor took a deep breath, held firmly onto Sansa’s hips, and pushed himself inside her. She cried out when he felt her maidenhead tear around him, but he did as he was bid and kept going. She couldn’t take his full length yet, so he stopped when he was as deep as he dared, searching her face. Sansa’s eyes were closed and she was shaking; he could feel her inner muscles spasming around him, and her hands were planted on his chest, pushing him back. Her already pale skin was alabaster.

“Sansa!” He hissed, cursing himself for a fool. Her eyes opened and they were full of pain. Tears streaked her cheeks. Sandor felt like weeping, too.

“Seven hells, little bird.” He made to withdraw and Sansa clutched at him.

“Don’t move,” she whispered, and winced. “Just… hold me for a moment.” Careful not to crush her, Sandor gathered her up in his arms and held on, suppressing the urge to thrust with strength from some unknown place. He could feel her heart beating wildly in her chest as he pressed his chest against hers. Sansa took deep breaths, trying not to squirm away from the foreignness of a huge, hot fullness in a part of her that had never felt empty. When he’d torn through her maidenhead she’d felt as if something was terribly wrong; that he’d broken her in some unfixable way, and she’d panicked. But the fiery pain of that moment had died down, and her fear subsided with it. It still hurt, but mostly it just felt strange. _Was this it, then?_ she thought. _What all the bards sing and the ladies whisper about?_

“I’m okay,” she said, and Sandor pulled back enough to see her face. He’d felt her gradually relaxing under him; the arch of her back sliding down into his waiting arms, and he’d dared to hope.

“You’re sure?” he asked gruffly; his voice had taken on a different sort of roughness than usual. Sansa could tell he was battling something powerful. Sansa nodded.

“Is that…” she paused, uncertain. “Is that all?” Sandor laughed; a genuine laugh for the first time in a long time.

“No, little bird. That is most certainly not all.”

The was a twinkle in her eye when she asked, “What’s next?” He moved his hips slightly, and Sansa’s eyes flew wide. He stopped again, evaluating.

"I'm alright," she breathed, looking straight at him, drowning him in her Tully blue gaze. "Are you?" A look of concern intermingled with pain on her face. He almost laughed, but quelled the urge.

"I have never been better," he growled into her ear, and she smiled so genuinely, innocently pleased to give him pleasure. It was true - he was still partially in denial that this was in fact reality. And though it was agony not to surge into her and take her hard and fast, he relished the struggle. He never thought this moment would be possible. He'd spend hours inching into her if she asked him to, because he was still astounded she allowed it at all. Allowed it? Seven hells, she wanted it. She had pleaded for it. He bent his head and pulled her hard against him, careful not to sink deeper into her and cause her pain, overwhelmed by a wave of conflicting feelings.

Sandor embraced her tightly, and though she wasn't sure why she delighted in his unmistakable tenderness. Tenderness from The Hound. Who would ever think it possible? _And it was probably better that no one did,_ she mused. A secret between us, a part of him no one else will ever see. She smiled inwardly at that, this moment which made him hers. Her body was thrumming with sensation, and at its center was fullness she relished. It was peculiar - their joining felt so right, so complete, but at the same time she couldn't help but wriggle around the hardness inside her. When she did, Sandor went rigid and there was a loud rumbling in his chest.

"Seven hells, little bird. Don't do that again unless you want me to continue."

She looked up at him, surprised. "Of course I want you to continue." Then, confusion. "Continue with what?"

Again he shook with mirth.

"Well, we're only halfway there," he said, lifting up his hips to allow her to see and flicking his gaze between their bodies. She blushed crimson, but she looked, and her mouth dropped open.

"There's no way..." she began, but then she snapped her lips closed and looked slyly up at him. "I think you are the biggest man in Westeros."

Sandor was appalled, but also throughly amused. He chuckled, a rumbling sound that she felt in every part of her. Then he sobered quickly. "And I don't want to break you." His hands curled around her waist protectively.

"Can you ... go deeper?" She asked, almost wonderingly.

"I think so. Do you wish it?"

"I do."

"The worst is over," he reassured her, again not sure if it was true. She only nodded and pulled him closer, and he moved his hips again tentatively, sinking into her slick tightness like a sheath that had been made for him.

As he entered her, Sansa trembled with pain, her stomach muscles fluttering and short gasps on her lips. The slow, relentless advance seemed to last forever, stretching her around him until it seemed he had pierced her very core. As much as it hurt, she relished the *power* of him, made somehow more apparent when controlled. She pushed back on him once with her hands to test her strength against his and it was like trying to move the facade of the Red Keep. Feeling her resistance, he immediately stopped with an anguished look, thinking it was too much for her. She whispered words of reassurance until he continued, opening her to him until he came to rest against something inside her.

He had been watching her face as he sheathed himself in her, staying focused on the trust in her eyes in order to ignore the tremors shaking her body, the clenching of her long fingers, and the soft, pitiful sounds of hurt she made behind white lips. When he was as far inside as she could currently accommodate (he suspected the last few inches would take time and gentle training), he smoothed her hair back from her face with one hand and kissed her on both cheeks, her wrinkled brow, and then her lips.

"It's done, little bird," he told her, his own triumph warring with his concern. "Are you in pain?"

She smiled. "Only a little. It is fading. Give me just a moment."

They held each other as her body adjusted, and he used the time to try to memorize every sensation. She was so soft and small under him, every part of her as fragile-seeming as his pet name for her. Her white skin was fetchingly flushed to match the ruby glinting in her hair, and her eyes looked bottomless. She was so tight around him, her inner muscles clenching and unclenching involuntarily as she struggled to accommodate his girth inside her. He could see her flat stomach seizing slightly, and struggled to imagine his huge manhood between those narrow hips, buried deep. He almost lost it, imagining that; despite the lengthy foreplay and the conflicted feelings he'd experienced watching pain flicker over her face, he was still rock-hard and fought fiercely to hold himself together.

Gradually, her trembling ceased and she dared to move her hips slightly again.

"Gods, little bird!" He grunted, and she was momentarily thrilled that such a little movement might have such a profound effect on him. She did it again, watching. He drew in a sharp breath and muttered, "Are you ready, then?"

She wasn't sure for what, exactly, but she nodded and rolled her hips up, sinking him a little deeper. He replied by withdrawing slightly and then pushing back into her as deep as he could without hurting. She gasped as some of the pain gave way to ... something else. Sandor repeated the motion a few more times, then suddenly sat up enough to allow him to place a finger at the top of their joining. He rubbed gently, and Sansa arched her back and moaned. She had touched herself there before, once when remembering him, but something about it being him stroking that place combined with the huge hardness of him inside her intensified the feeling until it was almost unbearable. He thrust into her gently as he caressed her, one hand between them and the other tracing over her neck, her breasts, her stomach, and back up to her lips. She was bucking her hips against him now in pursuit of something just out of reach, and when he ran his fingertip over her lips she opened them and bit down. Sandor growled, a deliciously masculine sound, and his thrusts became harder just as his other hand brought her to the edge of some unknown precipice. She called his name as he pushed her over, the sound trailing through the air like she was truly falling. For a moment everything went black, then she reentered a world spinning with stars. Her body shook with pleasure, and her eyes sought Sandor's. He was watching her with ecstasy on his face, his eyes so soft and full of feeling she hardly knew him. But then his gaze took on an edge, a hardness she had never seen before.

"Sansa," he breathed. "I will try to be gentle."

Then he scooped her up in his arms and bore her down, sparing her his full weight again but drilling her so hard with his hips and cock that he stole her breath. The lingering aftershocks of her peak shielded her at first, but as he neared his completion she began to feel again the full impact of his length and girth. When he shoved deep, shuddered bodily, and called out her name in a hoarse, guttural voice, she joined him, calling his name so she didn't just scream. Then she was filled with a sudden healing heat that burned away all aches, and their lips met, tongues dancing as their bodies stilled.

They lay together, him still inside her and bracing himself above her as he panted. She discovered she loved this moment, probably one of his most vulnerable. She loved him for that, for sharing with her the knowledge that she - just a slip of a girl, albeit a tall one - could bring the most feared warrior in Westeros to his knees. She loved the bulk of him above her, the feeling of him inside her, the heady, masculine scent of him. It would be just fine with her if they didn't move until he was ready to start again.

Sandor had no recollection of ever feeling this bloody marvelous. Only the thrill of standing alive on a cleared field of battle, exhaustion creeping into his bones, could compare. But this - somehow he felt even more drained. All those years of longing, watching, resisting, agonizing over her well-being and hating those who threatened it with a fire hotter than the one that burned his face scorching his insides -- that burden had been put down. He felt almost dizzy with relief, even though he knew it would only be temporary. She was infinitely more precious to him now, more precious than he ever thought possible. In this moment he felt he could take on all of Westeros for her sake, but in the back of his mind, he knew it would take all his cunning and his strength to keep her safe. He hugged her close, for right now, this room was all there was in the world. Slowly, hesitantly, he withdrew from her body and sat up.

It was not his way to thank her with words, but he did just that with every worshipful glance. Gently, he put his huge hand on her stomach, and his voice rumbled. "How much do you hurt?" It wasn't a question of if.

Hurt was so far from her mind she was momentarily confused. Seeing how much he craved reassurance, she shook the grogginess from her brain and smiled.

"Not at all, my ..." She bit back the word "lord" and said, "Sandor."

He laughed, a deep, rumbling, wonderful sound.

"My Sandor. I like that." He leaned in and kissed her, possessively and passionately. She felt undone, unable to coordinate her limbs. But sensation was creeping back, and with it the need to empty an oddly full bladder. She shifted and tried to stand. Sandor rushed to support her, leaping up as she shyly confessed her need. He grinned knowingly.

"It's natural, little bird. Your body's way of making you feel even more intensely." Her eyes widened. He knew so much more than she did about her body, she wondered as she recalled how expertly he'd teased between her legs. As she walked away to relieve herself, tottering somewhat on rubbery knees, she resolved to know his just as well. As she returned to their bed, she was taken aback by a sudden, sharp pain deep inside. She gasped and bent over, wrapping both arms around her waist. Sandor's head snapped in her direction, and she hurriedly straightened up and forced a smile. She didn't want him to think he'd hurt her, but the pain had scared her, and it wasn't going away. She limped over to him and threw herself down on the bed in what she hoped looked like satisfaction to disguise her discomfort. Sandor noticed her white face immediately and knew something was wrong.

"Gods, I've hurt you, little bird." He glanced back at the small round circle of blood on the sheets, then reached unabashedly between her legs and brought his hand up before his eyes. "You're not bleeding heavily," he observed, a note of panic in his voice. "Tell me what pains you." His voice was steel, and his fear magnified hers. Her tears spilled over and she reached out for him, though he couldn't understand why when he was the cause of her pain. He gathered her into his arms, his eyes searching her body for signs of injury. He cursed himself for the red marks on her pale skin, distinctly shaped like fingers.

"I-- I don't know," her voice hitched. "It's - inside."

"Burning? Aching?" He promoted.

"A little of both," she answered, drawing a shuddering breath that chilled him.

"I have seen this before," he told her gently. "Except, not with a maid. For you it must be worse..." He'd seen this before, indeed. It sometimes happened to the whores he visited, especially the red-headed ones who had taken the brunt of his lust on a particularly drunk day.

"What is it?" she asked feebly, her skin clammy under his fingers.

"It means I thrust into you too hard and too deeply. You're bruised inside." He sounded disgusted with himself.

"You were so careful," she whispered, reflecting back on how slowly he'd pushed into her. Every thought of those moments made her whole body react. In retrospect it was quite a feat of self-restraint.

He shook his head, punishing himself. "Not at the end. At the end I lost control." He balled his fists before twining them through her hair and beginning a gentle rocking motion. "Fuck, Sansa. I won't touch you again." His voice was so full of regret that she almost cried.

"That would be the worst pain," she told him quietly. "This will pass." Then, hesitantly, "Won't it?"

She looked up and saw his bunched jaw, his steely gaze.

"Yes, it will pass. But I won't pretend it won't be fucking unpleasant for a while." She nodded, determined to bear it as uncomplainingly as possible. The ache in her belly reminded her acutely of the fullness of him inside her, and her heart beat faster.

"It was worth it." She told him with certainty. "Let's try it again when I'm better."

Sandor barked a short laugh and pulled her tight against him.

"Seven hells, little bird. I hate to cause you pain, so if that is your wish I will try to be gentler at the end. It is..." He swallowed hard. "Difficult to master myself around you. When you came so sweetly for me, calling my name with me inside you, holy hells! I had waited so long for that moment, but never dared hope for it. I even finished inside you. We'll have to get you some moon tea."

She stiffened in his arms. "Moon tea? Why?"

"So you don't bear any bastards, you silly little bird," he said quietly.

She knew it was folly, but she said it anyway.

"I could never wish away a child of yours, Sandor. If the gods bless me with one, I will hope for many more."

He was shaken to the core. Had one sweaty fuck made her utterly forget the way the world worked? The thought of her carrying a child of his, holding its tiny body in his massive arms, filled him with so much joy it was terrible. He wasn't sure at all he has the strength and guile to keep *her* safe; introducing children into the equation complicated things beyond measure. But her certainty was so heartfelt, so unexpected, that he was disarmed.

"Sansa," he began, but found no words. Instead he bent down over her lips and claimed them. She responded vigorously until she twisted away and groaned, folding in on herself.

"It hurts," she whispered, guilty but too pained to hide. "I'm sorry I'm spoiling things."

Sandor was anguished. "This is not your fault, do you hear me? I'm a huge brute of a man who fucked you too hard. This is my fault."

An arrow of sensation shot clean through her middle when he said the word "fucked" - so crude yet somehow so exciting in his rough voice. He'd said it hundreds of times before, but never to mean... and she'd never heard him use it for them...

"Sandor!" She gasped in shock, feigning outrage. Turned inwardly and berating himself, he misread the tone of her voice as accusation or panic.

"What is it? Is the pain worse?" He looked at her with anxious grey eyes, and slipped his hand between her legs again, brushing her against her throbbing woman's place in search of blood.

"No, no!" She laughed, though doing so made her cringe. "That... word."

Sandor was baffled, trying to calm himself. "What word?"

She was scandalized. "I can't say it!"

His eyes cleared, and he almost smiled. "What, fuck?"

She blushed a hot red and nodded. Sandor laughed for true then, throwing his head back and holding her against his shaking chest.

"Don't tell me you can't bring yourself to say the word for what we did after the shameless way we fucked just now."

Sansa squirmed, loving the sound of that harsh word on his lips but hotly ashamed of it. It made her lust for him all over again, pain notwithstanding.

"It sounds so good when you say it, but it makes me feel..." she didn't have a word for it.

"Well you'd best get used to it, if you want me in your bed. Fucking is all I know how to do." His humor quickly darkened and he placed his heavy hand over her belly. The heat and weight of it relieved some of the ache, so she wrapped her hand around his wrist and held his hand against her, curling up on his lap. He leaned back against the headboard and they fell asleep that way.


End file.
